


Like Fathers, Like Son

by victorcharlie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Implied Mpreg, Kid Fic, M/M, and everything that goes with that tag, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorcharlie/pseuds/victorcharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Figuring out who your estranged father is, is tricky. Learning that he's a duke is not bad. Wanting him to be a part of your life is understandable. Dealing with everything in between (fathers, potential step-antagonists, potential romantic hopefuls, culture shocks, etc.) is substantially harder. </p><p>(Or, Arthur and Eames have a child, but Arthur is forced away so Eames never knows, thankfully however, their child is a wonderful go-getter.)<br/>(Or, 'What a Girl Wants' ft. Inception cast ft. Charlie AKA Arthur and Eames' love baby.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially my first fic, for all intents and purposes (so I'm wary of the A/B/O universe I'm setting myself up for -- which may or may not change the rating). But since it's summer for me, I've decided to take a whack at this. There's no reason I shouldn't have this completed by the end of summer, because really, there is actually no reason this won't be completed because I'm using the wonderful(ly 2000s throwback) movie 'What a Girl Wants' (starring Amanda Bynes and Colin Firth) as a template and technically have this all planned out. 
> 
> More tags to come once I flesh this all out.
> 
> This is un-beta'd, so all typos are mine. If you come across any and are caring enough, do let me know!

Arthur Levine, soon to be thirty-four years old, has done well to maintain a life filled only with what is necessary.

He wakes up at five every morning to go for a run. He works at the local architecture firm, and recently oversaw the construction of an art museum. He takes suppressants to help with his heats. He hasn't been romantically entangled for the past twelve years. He does laundry every Sunday night and folds it all while listening to Duke Ellington. He no longer cooks looking at recipes. He has many acquaintances and colleagues, but exactly three people he considers friends.

His apartment is a reflection of himself. Straightforward and modern. It's not that there isn't much but rather that there's just enough: an unobtrusive two-seater with a thick afghan thrown across the back, a miniature Calder dangling from the ceiling, a shelf stuffed with well-loved books, a few film posters hanging on the walls, a resilient spider plant resting on the window sill. The rest of the space is taken care of by clean lines and solid colors; rarely does print or pattern appear.

Today, however, is an exception to such rule. The wall of the apartment across from the two-seater Arthur is currently lounging on has been completely taken over by a massive, iridescent rainbow bunting that reads "Happy Birthday!" Shaking his head from side to side and watching the colors shift, Arthur sips on his routine mug of nighttime decaf. He listens as Charlie putters about in the bathroom, hopefully as he should be, getting ready for bed -- as Arthur should as well.

Finishing off the remaining dregs, Arthur moves into the kitchen. He washes the mug alongside two used plates and forks before drying them off and stowing them away. The Battenberg cake he made is four and a half slices smaller and ready to be a post-birthday breakfast for tomorrow morning. He sneaks in the half slice as a reward for a Battenberg cake well made.

"Hey kiddo, you better be in bed by the time I finish up. I know it's technically still your birthday, and it's summertime, but that doesn't change the fact that you have a bedtime." Arthur covers the remaining cake in cling film and places it in the fridge. He ties up the garbage and walks it over to the front door to take out before his morning run. Checking that the locks on the front door are indeed bolted, Arthur takes a final routine sweep over the apartment. Sighing to himself, he picks up the paintbrushes that were drying off on the window sill and nudges closed an unused easel by the bookshelf before slinging it under his arm. Satisfied with the state of things, he turns off the main lights and makes his way over to a still lit bedroom, paintbrushes and easel in tow.

Charlie Levine, newly turned eleven years old, is the one exception to all of his rules. Leaning against the bedroom door frame, Arthur watches as Charlie hunches over his desk flipping through a small photo album. The Polaroid taken earlier that evening is slid into the next empty slot. The photo is of the two of them: Arthur has an arm slung around Charlie's shoulder and is grinning at the camera, wavy hair just slightly slicked to the side because it's Saturday. Charlie's equally wavy brunet hair is untamed and in his eyes, and he's caught midway through blowing out eleven mismatched candles poking out of the Battenberg cake; cheeks puffed and pillowed lips turned outwards.

"Not in bed, I see." Arthur enters the room. Clean lines and solid colors. "Also, what have I said about not leaving your art supplies everywhere, huh kiddo?" He drops the paintbrushes into their usual canister and props the easel against the wall.

"Sorry, dad." Charlie is still hunched over his desk looking at the album. "Today was so great I forgot."

"Oh, today was really great, was it?" Arthur throws an arm around his son and pulls him into a hug, dropping a kiss onto his crown of waves. "Tell your dad some more about how great today was."

Charlie squeezes back. "Super great, dad. The best yet. You really killed it with the cake this year. It was delicious."

"Oh, yeah? My Battenberg cake is the only thing that made today so great?" Arthur teases, taking a cursory flip through the album. The previous page is another Polaroid, same setup and pose, only a year earlier and one less mismatched candle.

"No, I also really like my new tie!" Charlie closes the album and carries it to his unmade bed. He slides under the comforter and burrows into the pillows, album in between his head and the wall.

Arthur chuckles and can't help but to feel proud. "Well then, you're also going to have to remember to give Aunt Mal and Uncle Dom a call to thank them." He moves to lay next to Charlie, head propped up and body bracketing Charlie's cocooned mass.

"What's the time difference again?"

"Nine hours." Arthur brushes Charlie's fringe out of his eyes. "You can probably call them tomorrow during breakfast if you want. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Good."

The two fall into silence. From Charlie's ceiling dangles another miniature Calder. Arthur watches as it undulates, dancing to some unknown beat, slowly lulling him back--

"Hey, Dad." Charlie's soft call snaps Arthur out of his trance.

"Yes?" Arthur glances down into Charlie's dark blue eyes and knows what's coming.

"Dad, tell me the story again."

"Charlie, you can't tell me you don't already know it by heart." Arthur grunts as his bent arm protests when he sits up and fluffs one of the pillows before leaning against it. Charlie moves to slump against Arthur's side. "You ask me to tell you every year."

"So," Charlie pouts, "This can just count as another birthday present. You did say that it's still technically my birthday."

For the show of it, they both glance to Charlie's bedside to look at the clock: only nine-thirty. Jesus, Arthur feels old.

"And that's what you tell me every year."

"Because it's true! And you're a really good storyteller, dad. And you make really good Battenberg cake." Charlie circles his arms around Arthur's waist. "And, and if you want, you can borrow my tie."

"So now you're just buttering me up." Arthur chuckles, running his fingers through Charlie's waves. "It is a really nice tie though." Really, he's going to have to ask Mal where she got it.

Charlie fists at the silk of Arthur's lounge shirt. "I just wanna hear you talk about him."

Arthur's hand pauses momentarily and he glances at the album before continuing his ministration. "I know you do."

"Can you please tell me the story then?" Charlie's blue eyes turn upwards to Arthur and Arthur feels his heart twinge.

"Yeah, alright."

Charlie bites at his lip in attempt to contain his joy and turns to grab the album, and Arthur is again reminded by how small but significant Charlie is. His heart twinges again for all the right reasons and he pulls Charlie into his lap, wrapping his arms around his son and hooking his chin over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie snuggles into Arthur's arms and opens the album to the first Polaroid.

It's much smaller than any of the other Polaroids in the album. The edges are yellowing and the photo itself is dulling in color. It has some scratches and bends from having spent years in the fold of Arthur's wallet before being secured by Charlie.

They both release a breath. Charlie because he's still trying contain some of his excitement. Arthur because it's been another year since he's seen that face.

The photo is the same setup and pose, except instead of Charlie blowing out eleven mismatched but methodically placed candles, it's Arthur blowing out twenty-two mismatched candles poking erratically out of a Battenberg cake. Wavy brunet hair falling into eyes closed in delight and in wishing that that day would never end. Instead of an arm slung around Charlie's shoulder, it's around Arthur's. Instead of Arthur grinning into the camera, it's Eames.

"Dad, tell me about Eames."


	2. Chapter 2

If people had to live in places that matched their aesthetic, Arthur would have never been allowed to leave Manhattan. Some people are what they eat; Arthur is what he sees. He didn't have much of a choice otherwise. Growing up surrounded by skyscrapers, Wall Street, and sharks will do that to you.

Right in the middle of everything an upper-class, Jewish, omega son would need is Arthur. As the only child of two well-to-do betas, Nathaniel and Daphne Levine (both successful investment bankers), Arthur was the center of his parents' universe. From the day he was born, there was nothing but the best for him. Residence, cuisine, attire, and indulgences were all undeniably catered to Arthur's whims.

Granted, very early on, Nathaniel and Daphne realized that between Wall Street and their Lower Manhattan condo, they were much more adept at understanding the volatile stock market than their son. Omegas were generally timid and sympathetic, but Arthur was more reticent than anything else. Maybe they were prepared for a less precocious child.

It was unnerving, but nevertheless, as families do, the Levines learned how to best live with each other. Arthur's parents may have had over a decade's head start on him, but with some observation on his part, it wasn't particularly difficult to catch up.

His mother was the less likely of his two parents to pick up calls during the day, but any text would receive an immediate response. His father preferred the left side of all furniture in the condo since he was left handed and preferred to have undisputed territory, so Arthur always sat to his right. Anytime Dizzy was playing, Arthur knew to be more quiet; Duke probably meant his parents did something big with a client, but usually just when everything was happy. Both parents had the bad habit of loading the toilet paper flap on the inside. The best, however, was that they were all early-risers, and before Arthur knew how to walk, Daphne took him to Battery Park for a morning stroller run until he could join alongside her; Nathaniel always had some variation of organic ingredients made into a breakfast by the time they returned.

When it was time for Arthur to start attending school, for the first three years he sat in the back of the family car and was dropped off and picked up everyday on the way to and from Wall Street. When Arthur decided he wanted to attend Dalton School because the neighborhood school was beginning to bore him, they found out he was better off starting middle school. And because Dalton is in the Upper East Side, Arthur started taking the subway with a beta girl (Molly, an eighth grader) who lived on his floor the following year. He remained three years younger than his peers from sixth grade onward. Daphne moved their morning run to five in the morning and Nathaniel began making snacks as well.

Any Manhattan parent would be lying if they said they weren't proud of their child going to Dalton (Daphne's Alma mater) -- Nathaniel and Daphne were just worried Arthur, being so young and an omega, would inevitably flounder. He never did. The issue with it all the Levines found, as Arthur moved on to high school, was that he was never enthusiastic. He enjoyed learning, but it was clear that Arthur had yet to apply himself in a truly singular way.

For the most part, beyond the annoyance of travel, it helped that Arthur's omega inclinations propelled him towards academics rather than athletics or socializing. Arthur brought home high marks and ranking, and rarely was there ever a parent-teacher conference that didn't begin and end with effusive praise, so really, what Manhattan parent didn't want that?

Arthur was certainly okay with it all. School was relatively engaging, and he moved through middle school with ease. He was most definitely above average in all aspects and he went above and beyond what was required of him. While Arthur inevitably encountered the typical brunt of adolescent alpha posturing, by staying to himself, everything was much easier when he could focus on school work and not on how Tony Waldorf liked to leer at him. It was okay.

(It also helped that after Arthur brought up Tony's leering during dinner one night, Daphne took him to the family doctor the next day and discovered it was best for him to start taking suppressants.)

It was all okay because everything Arthur did was so that he could go to Columbia. The Alma mater of his parents. The next step in his natural progression. The thing he simply had to do.

\---

"Molly, come on. You're going to make us late. Let's go," Arthur grouses at the red head slowly making her way out of the elevator. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and behind his ear.

"Chill out, Arthur. I was preparing my chakras for this year before I have to sell my soul to one of the Ivies," Molly says, gathering her hands into a prayer pose, her numerous rings catching the sunlight.

"Well, maybe if your chakras had a better sense of punctuality, we could actually be on time."

"I understand your urgency, Arthur dear," she teases, ruffling Arthur's hair upon exiting their building, "I know you're very excited to return to prison, but let a girl take her time."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You already took two hours to get ready and then another to eat breakfast."

"Look, Arthur. There will never be a time that I am never not going to take my time eating your father's special first-day-of-school-breakfast-platter-from-the-gods. Okay? It comes once a year, and I may be leaving, but I'm sure as hell not going to give up my place at the table," she eulogizes, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. "Besides, there is a lot of effort that goes into looking effortless."

They trek downwards and beep their way through the turnstile. The foot traffic increases and bodies rush by. Loud, pungent-smelling alphas barreling their way through the crowds; polite, subtle-scented betas carrying on; and discreet, sweet-perfumed omegas pacing away. Sounds and smells always compress into a stifling cocoon when underground.

The back of Arthur's neck prickles and he instinctively reaches for Molly's waiting hand. They patiently mind the gap.

Fortunately, the five comes plowing through the tunnel on time. The two make their way onto the subway and wait for the next half hour to pass. Molly talks and Arthur listens. For a beta, Molly is surprisingly chatty, though it's understandable when you have three boisterous older alpha brothers. Arthur's perfectly content to allow Molly some uninterrupted time to talk her fill, lending his ear. It's honestly become comforting after five years of commuting together.

("Do you think Louis Sullivan shaved that disgusting thing off his face yet? I am appalled he even thought he could pull it off."

"I am not looking forward to another year with Coach McRoberts breathing down my neck about lacrosse."

"How much do you want to bet that Diane Chen is probably going to get into all eight Ivies?"

"I can't wait for senior ball. My mother's already contacted Raf about designing my dress and I cannot even.")

Arthur murmurs in acknowledgment and stares ahead. He makes eye contact with a man to the left of him.

The overhead PA system chimes to notify passengers they've arrived.

"Oh, shit, I almost forgot: I won't be going home with you today. Me and some other seniors are doing something to celebrate our imminent demise." Molly drops a hand to Arthur's knee in consolation, "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry. Go have your fun." At that, Arthur breaks eye contact and twists towards Molly. "Where are you guys going?"

"I think Rob wants to drag us all to some gentrified hipster joint in Harlem," Molly rolls her eyes and rises to exit, "It's no wonder he wants to go to Oberlin."

Arthur chuckles and moves to follow her out.

\---

Within seven hours, Arthur's back on the five.

People are standing just about shoulder to shoulder, chattering here and there. It's rush hour, but since he's clearly a child, and an omega at that, he's sitting. Trying to take up as little space as possible, he's relistening to the audio version of 'Middlesex,' voiced by Ian McKellan (he would read but there's always someone trying to read over his shoulder). He's gotten to the part near the end when Callie runs away and becomes Cal when the back of his neck prickles again. He looks up and sees the same man from earlier that day.

To Arthur, the man is a generic businessman in every sense of the word. A slightly rumpled, nondescript slate suit; a tie bar longer than his tie is wide, and just higher than it should be; a phone in hand, holder clipped onto his belt; and a scuffed briefcase on the ground in between his equally scuffed wingtip oxfords. Blond hair, muddy hazel eyes, some shadow; a generic face. He's looking at Arthur with a fixed stare.

The PA system chimes and the door next to his seat slides open.

Gripping the strap of his messenger bag and sliding it into his lap to hug, Arthur averts his gaze down to his boots. There's not a single scuff mark marring the leather of his black Chelsea boots; he received them four months ago and he's sure to polish them after every wear. The woman next to him has dozed off and has begun to softly snore. Feet shuffle on and off the subway. Scuffed wingtip oxford step into Arthur's space and the briefcase follows.

The subway door closes and pushes a wave of the man's sour alpha scent towards Arthur. Not a musty cloud like some of the alphas at school who apply too much spray to cover up their puberty, but a miasma encroaching into his space, slowly engulfing him. Cal has just been arrested by the police. The pitch of Ian McKellan's voice has sharpened to highlight Cal's agitation. Arthur begins to sweat and the man sniffs before shifting closer, briefcase knocking against Arthur's shin.

"Hi," says the man. His voice is deep, but unsuspecting. Arthur forces himself to remain looking his boots and tightens his hug on his bag. The woman next to him is still snoring.

Tension builds between them as Arthur refuses to reciprocate the man's greeting. Arthur can no longer hear Ian McKellan's voice. Distantly, another chime goes off.

"Look at me." A hand grabs at Arthur's chin and Arthur can't breathe. The man's thumb runs gently under his lip and his eyes squeeze shut. What would Molly do. What would his parents do. What would --

"Hey, you fucker!" The hand releases Arthur's chin and air rushes back in. The woman snorts awake and leaves. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Is anyone seeing this?"

Arthur turns his head and sees someone pushing past exiting passengers. The briefcase whispers a goodbye, the man bolts off, and the subway doors close again.

"What an actual piece of alpha shit. People are unfuckingbelievable, " the person mutters. It turns out to be a boy around Molly's age. "Hey, are you alright?" He crouchs down to meet Arthur's level. He has blue eyes, blond hair, and smells sweet. Another omega.

"Yes," Arthur croaks. He loosens his grip on his bag and runs his hands down the legs of his pants.

"Where are your parents?" the boy asks, laying a tentative hand on Arthur's knee. It calms him.

"They're at home," he says, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"What the hell -- heck are you doing by yourself?" The question is clearly directed less at his age and more at his classification.

"I just got off from school. The person I usually ride with was busy."

"And so you just decided to brave rush hour traffic by yourself, when you know there are creeps like that roaming around? Don't they teach you this stuff in middle school?"

"I'm not in middle school. I'm in high school." He somehow manages to sound affronted.

"Are you serious?"

Arthur feels his ears burn. "Yes. I go to Dalton." He shuts off Ian McKellan's voice; he'll have to rewind.

"Well, shit." The boy drops into the seat next to Arthur. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Wow. So what, ninth grade then?"

"I just started tenth grade today." His sweat has cooled off.

"Wow. You child prodigies get younger and younger."

The tone of his voice sparks an irksome feeling in the pit of Arthur's stomach. It surprises Arthur, who generally reserves annoyance only for his parents and Molly. "Well, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I just started my first year at Cooper Union."

Arthur recognizes the name. "Then what are you doing riding the five?"

"Huh, you're pretty observant, aren't you," the boy smirks at Arthur. "I spent the afternoon at the Guggenheim sketching. I usually take the six to get back, but I'm still getting used to the subways and accidentally got here."

"This doesn't take you back to Cooper Union though."

"Right again." A chuckle. "I somehow, by the graces of someone almighty, managed to score a place in Hell's Kitchen without completely breaking the bank."

Clearly this boy is lost.

"Are you not from New York?"

"No, I'm from the West Coast."

"What are you doing so far away from home? Aren't there art schools there?"

"Yes, but no. Yeah, Cooper Union has an art school, but I got into Cooper Union's architecture school, and there was no way I was turning down a great program and free tuition. So here I am." The boy grins and Arthur can't pinpoint the unusual feeling bubbling up, "I like Frank Lloyd Wright, which is why I was at the Guggenheim."

Another name Arthur recognizes. "I really like his Wayfarers Chapel." One of his many cousins had her bat mitzvah there.

Arthur's response clearly surprises the boy. "Well, then -- I never got your name, prodigy." Teasing again.

Arthur rolls his eyes and freezes. He realizes the unusual feeling he's feeling is comfortable: he's spoken more words to a complete stranger than he has to peers he's known for the past five years. Not even other omegas his age have warranted such an easygoing conversation.

"I'm Arthur." He extends his hand, shyly smiling.

The boy returns his smile with a knowing expression. "And I'm Dom," he says, shaking his hand.

The PA system chimes and it's Arthur's stop.

Arthur must twitch noticeably enough that Dom understands and lets go of Arthur's hand.

"I guess I'll let you go. It was really cool meeting you, Arthur. Really cool. In fact, why don't you take my number and text me." Dom reaches into his backpack and pulls out some pen and paper. "I mean, preferably under different circumstances, but then again, if some scumbag ever gives you trouble, definitely contact me." Dom eyes Arthur as he scrawls his number down before handing it over.

"Would you like to come over for dinner?" The words escape faster than Arthur has time to process them. He can't stop. "You could consider it a thank you, and my father's the best cook and dinner's bound to be something fantastic, and you can talk to my mother about Wright because she's the one who really likes stuff like that, and then you don't have worry about the subways, because we can drive you back to your place, and I --"

Dom blinks at Arthur, and Arthur is already planning seven different ways to extract himself from the situation before the subway doors close.

"You don't have to. Forget I asked. I can give you back your number," he stutters, trying to hand back the tiny strip of paper lined with neat, even numbers. Arthur's sweating again but for completely different reasons. He's managed to fail harder in the past three minutes than he has in his entire academic career.

"Sure." Dom folds the strip back into Arthur's hand and tousles Arthur's hair. "Let's go before we miss your stop." He rises and looks expectantly at Arthur. "Come on."

"Really?" Arthur pockets the number.

"Yeah. I may be here on free tuition, but there's no way I'm going to pass up free food, Arthur," Dom grins, "Besides I'd never pass up the chance to talk more about Wright. The man's a genius."

"My mother really likes him, too." Arthur trails behind Dom onto the platform.

"Awesome."

Arthur pulls out his phone and sends a text to his mother informing her he'd be bringing someone home for dinner. And not to tell Molly.

She responds with: 'We'll have another plate waiting and your secret's safe with me.'

\---

Dom (or Dominic Cobb, as Arthur later learns) and Arthur's parents get along swimmingly. Between the subway incident and Arthur's clear comfort around him, Dom becomes an honorary Levine. It also helps that Dom could lay flattery down where it counts. 

"Mr. Levine, I don't think I've had a more delicious plate of fregola and mussels in my life."

"You are too kind. It is the least I could do to pay you back for protecting Arthur like that," Nathaniel bows his head. "Now if you thought that was delicious, then prepare yourself for the vanilla mango panna cotta I made. Arthur, come help." The two Levine males take everyone's plates and excuse themselves to the kitchen.

Daphne glows at Dom from across the table. "I cannot tell you, Dominic, how grateful we are that you helped Arthur today. And if I can say candidly, I'm honestly surprised you did so as an omega."

"Please, Mrs. Levine, Dom," he smiles congenially, "And I've just learned to stand up for myself and others who need it. It doesn't matter what their classification is."

"Well thank you still. I'm hoping you can continue to stay close friends with Arthur."

Arthur makes a noise of agreement, carrying a tray. He walks around the table placing a low bowl of panna cotta on everyone's placemat.

"Most definitely. With your and Mr. Levine's permission, Arthur is more than welcome to visit me in Hell's Kitchen or at Cooper Union."

Nathaniel follows closely behind with four mugs of steaming coffee.

"Of course, as long as you're willing to have him," Nathaniel says, placing a mug adjacent to the bowls, "But tell us more about Cooper Union. I think you mentioned architecture earlier?"

"Yes! I'm studying to become an architect." Dom scooped at the panna cotta. "I've been fascinated with buildings since I was a little kid and then it clicked for me."

"And so you decided to come to the Big Apple."

Dom lets out a small moan and doesn't care to look embarrassed. "Excuse me, but this panna cotta is divine."

"Too much flattery, Dom. It's enough that I get it from Arthur's friend, Molly."

"I can't tell anything but the truth, Mr. Levine, especially when it's this delicious," Dom grins. "But yeah. Against all odds, I moved out here."

Arthur looks up from his empty bowl. "What odds?"

For the first time that night, Dom seems hesitant to speak. "Well, to be blunt, though I'm sure you know, there are bigots who say omegas are better off staying at home. And in respect to omega architects: it's that we're better off staying at home than designing and building them." He hesitates, but when no one stops him, he continues on resolutely, "But omegas aren't just for breeding. Fuck that noise! Yes, we're nurturers by nature, but we're also protectors and creators. And as an omega, I don't think there's anything better than creating buildings to protect people I would want to nurture. That's why I want to become an architect."

Daphne and Nathaniel are nothing but smiles, while Arthur's jaw hangs loose.

"That's wonderful, Dom." Daphne reaches across the table to lay a gentle hand on Dom's clenched fist. "I can't wait to see you prove all your detractors wrong."

"I'm sorry that I cursed," Dom blushes, stuffing the last bit of his custard into his mouth.

"Well, I'm certainly not!" Daphne chortles. "God knows how much I do during the day."

Nathaniel moves to pick up the low bowls and utensils. "How about we finish up our coffee and take a hour or so to allow my decadent meal to digest, and then we can take you over to your place. How does that sound, Dom?"

Dom blows on his coffee. "Sounds great."

Arthur feels some akin to elation rising up under his skin.

Daphne rises and heads towards the sunken center of the condo. "We can move to the living room for the time being. Dom, come over here and we can talk more about Wright."

Dom makes eye contact with Arthur. He grins so hard, his eyes crinkle.

They go to Daphne.

Dom settles next to her and they talk a mile a minute. Nathaniel moves to their record player and unshealths one of Duke's records, retiring to his recliner. Arthur sprawls across the rug and spends the rest of the night looking up Frank Lloyd Wright.

\---

The following weekend, Arthur commutes to Bulter Library and checks out as many books on architecture as he can.

Once Molly hears about what happened on the subway, she spends the following month glaring down any alphas who look their way.

Dom and Molly are obviously introduced. He compliments her chakras and their friendship is solidified.

The rest of the school year is divided between home, Dalton, Dom's apartment, and Cooper Union.

(He falls in love with 41 Cooper Square.)

Molly sells her soul to Columbia.

(Diane Chen ended up getting into all eight Ivies.)

Before the beginning of junior year, Arthur comes home exclaiming he's going to be an architect. Nathaniel pulls him into a hug and Daphne goes down the street to buy some celebratory pistachio baklava. Dom and Molly are invited over and spend the night.

By the end of senior year, there's a Cooper Union pennant hanging on Arthur's wall.

Five years fly by.

When he graduates with highest honors, he's still technically under the legal drinking age.

(He celebrates over vanilla mango panna cotta and coffee.)

The next year he's invited to intern in Paris at the architecture firm Dom works at.

If people had to live in places that matched their soul, Arthur would never leave Paris.

(Right before he turns twenty-two, he meets Eames.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So........ this may or may not be the biggest tangent I didn't plan to write. I promise this started out actually being the flashback-story, but it somehow ended up being just a flashback (and I introduced characters I didn't know were going to be characters!). Basically, this is probably going to be so very much longer than I anticipated. Hopefully it's all worth it~~~~~~
> 
> Also, writing is hard (like, the research that went into writing this chapter*. Unfuckingbelievable. Also, how do people just blast out 10k word chapters??) -- but, man, I'm finding myself pleasantly surprised with how much I'm enjoying how things are turning out. 
> 
> And everyone's responses are wonderful and make me happy and I now know why notes are filled with happy garbles of happiness because comments'n'kudos!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> *some things have been flibbed, but most things are fairly true.


	3. Chapter 3

The risotto starts to burn before Arthur even has the chance to toss in the mushrooms he painstakingly spent the past seven minutes trying to dice. What's left over is a browned slush not even worthy enough to be an attempt.

Fuck it all. He doesn't even like risotto.

Arthur bins the slush. Running a hand across his sweaty brow, he deposits the pan on the stove and pulls out his phone. Thumbing through his phone, he sends a text to his mother.

'Can you tell father to email me that one quiche recipe I like?'

'He's sending it to you as you read this. Get some sleep. We love you.'

His phone pings shortly afterwards and Arthur absentmindedly glances through the recipe, noting what he should pick up tomorrow. He knows he's been culinarily spoiled for the first twenty years of his life, but he managed to pick up a few skills from his father and has successfully held his own for the past two years and three months.

'Thanks. Love you both. I'm heading to bed now.'

He's not.

It may be eleven at night, and he may have spent the entire day on-site and then overtime to finish preliminary sketches for a client, his mind exhausted and his body weary, but his stomach is starving.

And now he just wasted an entire fucking hour preparing for the risotto he just ruined and he's still hungry.

So fuck healthy, home eating.

He can't help but to grimace at the implications. At least for tonight.

Going into his bedroom, he changes out of the suit he never got around to taking off because he was so intent on making dinner. He takes a long pause to go through a breathing exercise Dom taught him.

Weighing his options and current mood, Arthur grabs a deep maroon knit off a hanger, pulling it over his oxford, and slips into a comfortable pair of black joggers. Then, on second thought, he throws on a fishtail parka for warmth (and to help keep in his scent). If he's going to let go for tonight, he might as well do it in comfort. So then he also digs out his warmest but, unfortunately, tackiest scarf. (A parting gift from Molly.)

God help him if he runs into a coworker.

Dragging a hand through his hair to loosen it from the pomade, Arthur exits his apartment building and takes a deep breath of the cool night air. It's nearing the end of September and nights were significantly cooler than the daytime.

He takes a moment to take in le Marais, the district in the fourth arrondissement he lives in. It has everything he needs and he loves it.

There were objectively better places to live in other arrondissements, but during particular times like this, when Arthur is so bone-achingly tired and not wanting to admit how much he would give up to crawl into his parent's bed in whatever moment of helplessness he's facing, Arthur knows he made the right choice.

He's wonderfully close to the Centre Pompidou, perhaps a little too close to the Jewish community, definitely not close enough to the gay community, and best of yet, just fucking close enough to the Chinese community when it's a shit day and he ruins his dinner and needs to treat himself to a plate of mind-numbingly spicy kung pao chicken.

Everyone gets a break, he reassures himself, he's more than allowed to wear casual clothing outside. It's fine to do away with healthy eating and indulge in something greasy, every now and then. He can return to his healthy, home cooked meals tomorrow and everything will be okay.

He zips up his parka. He just can't let Dom know about this little slip up -- he and Dom had been doggedly keeping each other's diets accountable. (As much as he had been spoiled by his father's cooking, so had Dom.)

When he had first moved to France, Arthur discovered that Dom was severely and laughably culinarily challenged. Which initially surprised him, but was rather understandable given that Arthur had never seen Dom cook prior, and Dom had taken every chance he could during their shared time in Manhattan to only ever eat meals cooked by Nathaniel (who was glad to comply). Dom had apparently been spending the majority of the past four years eating ready-made meals from Carrefour and bagette au fromage by the loaves. It was pathetic, to be honest.

(Arthur had sent a few pictures of the contents of Dom's fridge and pantry to his father, who for once, immediately texted back with a poorly angled picture of himself weeping into a hand.)

So in effort to start off his new French lifestyle on the right foot and to help Dom (who had had the tell-tale signs of a growing stomach pooch), he made himself and Dom promise to eat healthy and hold each other accountable.

To Arthur's delight, who had been secretly afraid that Dom was going to find his actions overbearing (a niggling feeling he hadn't felt in years), his plan worked out splendidly.

They maintained a long-standing biweekly trip to Carrefour for groceries, making sure to stay far away from ready-made meals. It was also fairly easy to alternate cooking at whoever's respective apartment every day after work.

However, on one of their biweekly grocery trips, four months after Arthur implemented his plan and soon after they reached the point of routine, Dom met Mal.

(Dom had gone off to grab the basil they forgot to pick up.

Arthur was standing in the pasta aisle deciding whether they should try cassarecce or gemelli this time, when someone crashed into their cart, startling a yelp out of him.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have turned the corner so quickly," a gentle but strong voice apologized, "Are you okay?"

Arthur looked over the two carts to see the most stunning Parisian alpha he had ever seen giving him a concerned stare. It was almost upsetting to see her perfectly colored red lips downturned in worry.

"Oh, no, I probably shouldn't be so close to the opening, in the first place," he assuaged, dropping a package of germelli into the cart. "Though at most, I suppose, you should apologize to the vegetables." He teased and pointed at the scattered selection of zucchini, bell pepper, and asparagus.

The woman chuckled heartily, "Indeed, I should."

At that time, as Arthur nor the alpha woman had moved inwards, Dom walked straight into her and dropped the bushel of basil he was carrying.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, bending down to grab the basil.

"No, no, my fault again," she countered, reaching for the basil as well.

Arthur could only standby and watch in bewilderment as they did that dumb movie cliché where the alpha and the omega serendipitously touch hands, scent each other, and look into the other's eyes.

"My name is Mallorie, but please call me Mal."

"I'm Dominic, but I go by Dom."

Unfuckingbelievable.

It would have been anything but a lie to say that they didn't fall instantly in love. )

But to Arthur's delight, Mal made their life even more splendid.

She may have been immediately attached to Dom, and after one decisive date, his girlfriend, but she also quickly became Arthur's first steadfast, alpha friend.

Over the next months, Mal took Arthur all over Paris: showing him the ins and outs of every arrondissements; going to art gallery openings; pointing out the best boulangeries, pâtisseries, and fromageries; and introducing him to his current tailor, Giuseppe. They bonded over modern art, Murakami, New Wave French cinema, and all things sartorial.

It was also a not-so secret that they really solidified their friendship over a few bottles of very shitty red wine. Over which Arthur admitted he was not-so secretly in love with Frank Gehry, even though Arthur actually despises deconstructivism; over which Mal admitted she was not-so secretly in love with Dom.

It being a not-so secret because in the midst of drinking their way through a second bottle and loudly sharing their secrets, they had forgotten Dom was in the next room finalizing some details on some sketches. Sketches that were clearly forgotten about when Dom rushed into the room and called a cab for Arthur.

(The next day at work, Arthur confronted a scarfed, blushing Dom and teasingly demanding an apology. Only to be dragged into the break room and shown a wine-red but elegant bite mark on Dom's neck.)

It was only a matter of time when Arthur was handed a substantial, gold-embossed invitation to their understated courthouse wedding. Dom's parents flew in from the West Coast, and Arthur's parents and Molly from Manhattan. It was a beautiful August ceremony.

Soon after, over a dinner of successful beef bourguignon, Dom and Mal tell Arthur that Dom's pregnant and that they'd love nothing more than for Arthur to be the godfather. A request Arthur more than ecstatically accepts, teary eyed.

Ten months later, Arthur accepts small, blonde-fuzzed Phillipa Eloise Cobb into his arms.

Now three months later with Dom still on paternity leave, Arthur finds himself dreadfully alone, walking into his favorite Chinese restaurant, blaming Mal, and hating work. So tonight he wasn't going to fight it, he decided, he definitely wasn't going to let Dom know, but he was also giving himself a free pass because the day has been entirely too fucking long.

The bells attached to the door jingle when Arthur enters the hole-in-the-wall treasure of le Marais known as Le Dragon.

He sees Valerie, the beta daughter of the owners, wiping down some tables.

"Good evening, Valerie," he says, unraveling his scarf.

"Hey, Arthur," she heads back towards the kitchen, "The usual?"

He throws himself into the closest chair and pillows his head on his scarf. "I have a usual?" he asks.

"You've been here every night for the past week, and you order the same thing," she scoffs, placing a complimentary cup of water by his elbow, "You have a usual."

He groans and hides his face. So maybe he's given himself more than one free pass; he tried tonight, he really did. Dom still won't know.

Valerie pats his head. "No one's here to judge you, Arthur. Though my parents are a bit worried about your stomach; is it okay?"

"Please, for the love of all that is holy, make my kung pao chicken so spicy I forget everything," he mumbles, pulling off his parka. He feels hot thinking about it.

She laughs and walks away. "It'll be ready in a bit."

Arthur sighs into his scarf before lifting his head to drink his water. Work has been difficult, to say the least.

His physical architecture work has been everything he imagined it would be -- tiring (he's had to ferry to and from an on-site for a project the firm is wrapping up), tedious (grunt intern work making phones calls and copying papers), exciting (sitting in on proposal meetings and giving actual input), challenging (his knowledge and abilities are tested everyday) -- he loves it. He may be an second-year intern, but he's proven his talents and so he's been given more duties and responsibilities as a result. He's around experts and skilled, respected people in his field, who spare him the time to graciously answer his questions. Arthur wouldn't give up his position for anything.

But it's not architecture-related problems at work that have been troubling him, but the problem of work itself.

Even as a second-year intern, Arthur's twenty-two and younger than anyone at the firm, which isn't a problem for him because he's always been younger than everyone else. Of course, when you wrap that around his undeniable intelligence, the attention he garners because of it, and hints about a full-time offer, the other second-years and third-years have been growing steadily resentful. Then you put his omega status bow right on top and you have a fucking Christmas present ready to be torn apart.

While none of the other interns have been directly confrontational or defaming about their indignation, like all the other bullying situations Arthur has found himself in before, regardless of age, people seem to revert back to childish means of harassment as an outlet for their frustrations.

First, they decided to take some jabs at his American citizenship, even though he's mentioned how he technically has a resident permit:

"Hey, American! Oh, I mean, Arthur." (This was so pathetic, he outright snickered in whoever's face it was who addressed him.)

"Where should we go for lunch today? Should we go to McDonalds and get hamburgers? Arthur, don't you just love hamburgers?" (At this, Arthur raised his bento of homemade sushi and kindly declined.)

"What's up, Artie?" (This was spoken in greeting, in English, and in a very poor attempt of a Texan accent. Granted, he hates Artie as a nickname, so this was probably the closest anyone got to scratching the surface.)

Once they realized their name calling barely fazed him, they moved onto harmless pranks: subtly rearranging his desk space, hiding his scales, breaking the lead off his pencils -- pranks he spent the entirety of his childhood facing.

Then it progressed to the third-years handing off their tedious work to him every now and then:

"Arthur, could you draft this 3D model for me, please? Thank you."

"Can you transfer my notes into a power point presentation for tomorrow's meeting for me? Thanks, Arthur."

"Arthur, would you mind double-checking my numbers and then making sure nothing conflicts with any of the zoning laws? You're so kind."

It sucked, but as long as the other second-years and first-years also had work foisted onto them, he didn't mind taking on more and taking it in stride.

Like all the other bullying situations he's been in before, they do nothing more than act as motivation and fuel to push him to come out on top.

But after all, there's a cracking point for both him and his workspace bullies. After a few weeks of no reaction or retaliation from Arthur, his main aggressor, a third-year alpha named Jules (the bone-head who called him Artie), finally decided to make a petty, passive-aggressive gibe at him during a high-profile project proposal meeting.

Both Jules and Arthur had had the privilege of being selected to be a part of the project, but of course, Jules spent the few days leading up to the meeting opposing his participation. He was promptly shut down by the project manager, and Arthur walked into the meeting the next morning pleased.

Due to the project being so high-profile, it was a firm-wide meeting. Nevertheless, it moved along efficiently.

The proposal was for a friend of one of the senior partners. The client-friend who was the head of his global energy company and was donating a monumental amount of money to a build a school in Japan. It was a fantastic design (echoing much of Kenzō Tange's structuralist style), the budget was meticulously planned, and it was a lovely project to have the chance to be a part of.

When the meeting finished and everything was approved, everyone remained in the conference room and mingled. Arthur talked to the project manager about some things, smiled at some of the partners, and stayed at opposite ends of the room to avoid interacting with Jules.

However, he and Jules were eventually called together to be introduced to the client, Dai Saito, or Mr. Saito as he preferred. At forty-eight, he was fairly young for a man in his position. He was dressed in a well-tailored, three-piece bespoke Zegna suit that Arthur had to consciously pull his eyes from to focus on the conversation.

They stood in a group with Mr. Saito, the senior partners, and the project manager. The conversation flowed and it was nice being able to interact with the client on a much more personal level and listen to his insights and reasoning behind his project.

"I may be the scary head of Proclus," everyone chuckled, "But I never forget where I come from. I've finally managed to make myself into the successful businessman I am and that's because of the people from my village who always believed in me. So in return, I want to build a school for my village and for all the young children."

There was a gracious pause in the conversation clearly giving him and Jules the opportunity to speak.

Jules jumped at the chance and puffed his chest. "It's such a privilege to be able to work for you, Mr. Saito. I know Proclus Global is such an innovative and respected company in its field. In fact, it's really the best, so I can see way you've chosen to work with this firm. I can't wait to help and make this a great school!"

Mr. Saito raised an eyebrow, and then the attention turned to Arthur.

He bowed his head to Mr. Saito. "I'm honored to have been chosen for this project. I love designs like this that create a space for people to focus on the relationships between each other, rather than on themselves. And I think it's important for environments, especially schools, to nurture that space," he said as professionally as possible, but nonetheless, infused genuinely enough that he hoped he conveyed his excitement.

Mr. Saito gave him an appreciative nod.

But of course, Jules fucking bone-head decided he needed the last word. "Oh, did your omega school nurture that in you when you were younger, Arthur?"

The thing about omega bigotry, unlike any other bigotry, was that you're always at a natural disadvantage when anything is said in public spaces, like at work. It's now illegal to discriminate based on classification, and it's done less so in all aspects of society, but it doesn't curtail omega bigots from being speaking. Like Jules.

Omegas are always at a disadvantage because even though laws have been passed and progress has been made, laws and progress do nothing to stop the innate feeling of dominance alphas are naturally inclined to feel towards omegas. The need to keep omegas in their homes.

But if Jules had pulled that bullshit on Arthur's best day, Arthur might have brushed it off; he's been dealt more than his fair share of omega bigotry and he can be the bigger person.

If Jules had pulled that bullshit on any other day, Arthur would have retorted so quickly Jules’s bone-head would have rather had his limbs ripped off and thrown off the Eiffel Tower.

Instead, Jules pulled that bullshit not only in front of partners and the client, but in front of a group of alphas and betas.

Alphas who instinctively agree with Jules. Betas who instinctively can't argue against an alpha. An omega who instinctively wanted to curl up and die.

Arthur's ear burned so much they ringed. A furtive rush of heat roared through his body and Arthur wanted to throw himself off the Eiffel Tower.

The only reason Arthur knew silence had fallen over the group was because he looked at Jules smug face.

He stood his ground. "No, Jules," he spat, "It was my personal aesthetic and my desire to be a decent human being that did." He spared Jules a venomous glare before averting his eyes down to his polished double monk-strap shoes, ears still ringing.

"Excuse me," he managed to get out, bowing one last time to Mr. Saito, before exiting the conference room.

He beelined to his desk and grabbed what materials he needed before all but running to an on-site.

(He almost went directly to Dom and Mal, but stopped himself. He refuses to bother Dom and Mal now that they've been rearranging their entire lives to encompass Phillipa; he won't put anything else onto their plate, least of all his omega troubles.)

By the time he returned to the firm, he was exhausted and still feeling residual hot anger. It was dark and he had to let himself in with his card. He spent the rest of the night inattentively trying to finish some models.

He eventually accepted that he wasn't getting anything done and went home.

Only to ruin the risotto he had planned for dinner.

And now he's staring dejectedly at his empty cup, throat parched, waiting for his mind-numbingly spicy kung pao chicken.

Fuck Jules.

"Valerie, can I get another cup?" he calls out.

"Yeah, give me a sec -- your chicken's ready!" she calls back.

A few seconds later, the potent smell of a spice level just right to make him forget about everything wafts into the restaurant. Valerie walks in carrying a tray with his dish, rice, and a carafe of water.

"Here you go, Arthur. One mind-numbingly, going-to-rip-you-a-new-asshole spicy plate of kung pao chicken," she exclaims with a flourish, placing the steaming dish and large bowl of rice in front of him.

He salivates and almost gives himself a splinter pulling apart his wooden chopsticks. "I love everything you and this restaurant stand for." He digs in and actual tears run down his face.

"Yeah, alright, don't hurt yourself," Valerie sits in the chair across from him, "No one's going to go and tattle to Dom. Least of all me, especially with all the business you've given us."

He's only a third of the way through the dish when the bells jingle.

"Oh, hello again," Valerie says in English, addressing someone over Arthur's shoulder. She gets up. "Will it be the same, again?"

"Hello," replies a deep and nuanced, but slurred British voice. "Yeah, that'd be great."

There's a little stumble in the man's step, but Arthur just continues to stuff his face, trying to fight fire with fire.

He doesn't even register a loud sniff until he feels something cold brush by his temple, startling him so suddenly he chokes on his bite of rice.

It must be loud enough that Valerie appears. "Are you alright, Arthur?" She's back to using French.

He nods and downs his cup of water before pouring another. Then he glares over at whoever the fuck thought it was okay to invade his personal space.

Whoever it is, is gorgeous. 

It, the man, is sprawled across two chairs and leaning against the wall at the table across the door from Arthur. He's clearly drunk, given the few words he spared with Valerie. He has a toothpick in his mouth, dangling precariously between his pillowed lips. His outfit is so utterly atrocious, it makes Arthur lightheaded. He's staring at Arthur with an intensity that has him reaching for his water again. An alpha.

With that, Arthur is reminded to return to his food.

It isn't long before whoever it is stumbles over to Arthur's table and sits in the chair Valerie did a few minutes prior.

Arthur refuses to look up from his kung pao chicken.

"Why, hello, hello -- I mean," the alpha clears his throat and starts again, "Bon, bonne nuit, mon ange."

The man's French is so terrible Arthur is actually offended and decides not to give the man any hope.

"Désolé." Arthur makes eye contact and is startled by the blueness. "Je ne parle pas anglais," he spares a small consolatory smile. There's a shadow of scruff running across the man's devastating jawline.

The man holds Arthur's gaze.

Arthur slightly smiles again before pointedly returning to his food, hoping the man gets the hint.

The man doesn't move and Arthur quirks a brow. "Sorry," he feigns a thick French accent, "I, uh, do not speak, speak any English."

The man returns his own raised brow.

"Well, pet," the man leans back in the chair, "As much as I do love you speaking French to me, I'm rather offended you think I'm stupid."

Arthur blinks.

"You're not French."

Arthur rubs at his eyes. Is this man for real? Has the kung pao chicken finally gotten to him?

The man clears his throat again and leans in close, forearms on the table and elbows pointed out. "You're not French, because no self-respecting, yuppie French man would be out this late on a Friday night; you'd have tucked in your mini yuppie sprogs and be in bed with your Carla Bruni. Also, you're not wearing a ring," he nods at Arthur's left hand, "Not to mention, you're definitely much younger than I am, and I'm definitely not a yuppie, so there's no way you can be a yuppie -- or at least not yet. Moreover, you're not French because your winsome self is here in the fourth arrondissement, in le Marais, at this hole-in-the-wall instead of out gallivanting with other youths," he reaches for Arthur's cup and downs the rest of the water, "Ergo, you are not French. At least not native."

Arthur must give some indication of confirmation because alpha has the audacity to look devastatingly boastful.

Pushing away his half-eaten food, he feels a throbbing starting somewhere in his body (at the base of his skull, no doubt). But despite himself, and probably because the man looks so fucking hot, Arthur feels his ears heat up.

"You think I'm winsome?"

A triumphant fist pump. "I knew it. American. Have you been wooed?" The man leans in even closer.

"No!"

"Ah. Well then winsome's just a slip of the tongue then," he pulls back, "I blame how bloody brilliant French absinthe is."

Arthur scoffs, "Oh, and did you drink absinthe while gallivanting through le Marais?" He digs through his parka for money.

"No, I did not drink absinthe while gallivanting through le Marais," more water is poured, "I drank absinthe while doing a drunk run."

And now the throbbing has evolved into a slow pounding.

"You ran while drunk on absinthe?"

"No, no," the man chuckles, running a finger through the condensation on the table, "A drunk run isn't running while drunk," his finger pauses, "Well, actually I suppose that is what it sounds like -- but no, I'm an actor, not an athlete. We did a drunk run of my show. On absinthe."

"That honestly makes a little sense," he giggles.

(He fucking giggles.)

"I've been told it eventually does." There's a slight change in tone and a more noticeable shift in expression. "Are you alright, pet?"

Valerie comes out with a plate of noodles.

"Actually, would you mind terribly, love, packaging it up to go?" the man reaches for Arthur's forgotten kung pao chicken and slips his credit card onto the tray. "And this as well? Sorry for the trouble."

She glances worriedly at Arthur, who runs a hand up his face and through his hair, sweat along his hairline.

"Yeah, Valerie, I think I'm done for the night. Compliments to the chef, per usual," he musters a grin at Valerie, who takes the food away to package. "And I'm fine. Just a little hot underneath my layers." Arthur rolls up his sleeves. "Call me Arthur."

(Voluntarily giving up his name. Immediate red flag.)

"Well, Arthur," the alpha tongues at his name, "This drunk's name is Eames."

"Eames," Arthur leans forward, "What kind of name is Eames?"

"Hey, now, I'll have you know it's a very well-respected family name back in England." Eames smiles lopsidedly and mirrors Arthur's lean.

"Yeah? Well, Eames is also a lounge chair."

Eames sputters and tries to retort, but Arthur suddenly slaps down some money and grabs his parka and scarf before rushing out.

"Hey! Wait!" Eames calls after him, distantly.

(It's cold and it's glorious.

But the heat still burns.)

Arthur is half-way down the hallway of his apartment floor before he stops running and the world starts turning and his knees buckle.

"Woah now, pet," Eames murmurs, absinthe fleeting on his breath, strong arms hooking under Arthur's armpits, catching him.

Arthur is burning where his back is sagging against Eames's front but he doesn't want to get away.

"What did you do to me?" he slurs, turning his head into Eames's neck. "Why is everything spinning?" Something smells pleasant and he noses up Eames's devastating jaw, rubbing against stubble in search of the scent.

"Few more steps, Arthur, you can do it." Eames's voice is gruff but firm. He props Arthur up against the wall. "Where's your key?"

Arthur maneuvers a hand into his joggers and deftly fishes out his key with two fingers, presenting it proudly. "I got it," he says, pushing Eames out of the way. He's burning up, not inept. He can open his own fucking door.

That is, if he can find the lock to stick the key in.

After a frustrating amount of time has passed, Arthur is ready to fling the key when a surprisingly soft hand closes over his own before he can release the metal into the darkness of the hall.

"Let me see the key, pet." Eames pries the key away and turns to unlock the door.

Within seconds, Arthur's apartment door swings open and he stumbles in before Eames, heading directly for his couch. The world is no longer spinning, but the heat returns and he pulls his sweater off, flinging it to the ground.

He hears some noise in the direction of his kitchen and the faucet running.

"No," he wails, throwing an arm over his eyes, "I ruined my risotto. Don't look!"

Footsteps approach and Arthur looks up to see Eames with a glass of water.

"Don't worry, pet. Cooking is at the very bottom of my list of things I can do, so I'm last to judge." Eames pulls Arthur up into a sitting position, placing the chilled glass in his hands and directing it to his mouth. "Drink."

The water is gone before Arthur registers drinking it. "More," he croaks.

Eames is gone and returns with another glass. It continues twice more before some of the heat subsides and Arthur can think.

He looks over at Eames, who's perched cautiously next to him. There's concern in his expression.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Eames takes the empty glass from his hands and sets it aside on the coffee table. He turns back and gives Arthur a serious look. "You're starting your heat, Arthur."

The shocked silence that follows is laughable if not for the cold sweat that douses his body in some much desired cool.

"Is this your first heat, Arthur? Do you have someone?" Eames's soft tone is almost patronizing, if not for the sobering reality of the situation.

"No," he shakes his head, running his hands over his face. They're still chilled from holding the glass. "This is not my first heat. I'm twenty-two, for God's sake, not sixteen."

Fuck. Arthur is reeling. How is this happening? He's at least a week and a half early.

He must have started wheezing because Eames reaches for him, but he jerks away and angles his body away from Eames, who understands and moves to sit on the ottoman away from Arthur.

Arthur drops his head to his palms and runs through a breathing exercise. How? Inhale. The pounding is starting back up and with a vengeance. Exhale. Shit. Inhale. Fuck. Exhale. Jules and his omega bigotry. Inhale. The stress must have prompted. Exhale. An early heat. Inhale. Fuck.

He lifts his head up and looks over at Eames. Fuck.

There's tension radiating from the larger man's rigid body, but his eyes remain unwaveringly focused on Arthur. Fuck.

Eames is an alpha and Arthur is an omega about to start his heat. Fuck.

Fuck is exactly what he wants to do.

"Arthur." Eames's voice is strained.

"Yes?" Arthur's voice comes out meeker than he hoped. A familiar slickness creeps down his hole.

Eames's eyes shut and he takes a deep breath in, nostrils flaring. Hands fisting at the ottoman.

A few minutes pass before they open again.

"You, Arthur," he begins slowly, "Have two choices: one, I leave immediately as soon as you choose and I leave you alone," his voices pinches and Arthur flinches as if hurt, "Or, two, I help you with your heat -- but you have to choose, Arthur."

The pressure building in between his legs is close to sending him flying into Eames's lap.

No.

He doesn't even know who Eames is.

Eames is a drunk British actor he met at Le Dragon.

Arthur grips at his hair. He needs to think, or least think about thinking. And fast.

He scrambles for his phone. It's past one, but Arthur sends a hurried text to Dom: 'Heat early with someone my place text later. Fuck jules.' Once the text is sent, he tosses his phone on the coffee table and tells himself to remember that's where it is.

"Who was that?" Eames's alpha possessiveness peeks its head.

"A friend."

Eames is still immobile, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists.

(Waiting for Arthur's decision.

He's given Arthur the choice.

The choice to choose.

Eames.)

The heat settles in his bones and Arthur absentmindedly cants his hips, feeling slick slither down his balls, and watches Eames's nostrils flare in response.

"Yes."

Eames's head snaps up. Hands gripping his knees. "What?"

Arthur coyly grins and rises to stand astoundingly steady on his feet. Heat wrapping around his head and pushing him forward until he drops to his knees in front of Eames. He reaches for one of Eames's hand and gently unfurling his first two fingers.

"I choose two."

He slides the lax fingers into his mouth, sucking heavily, hands gripping Eames's wrist. He runs his tongue along the pads of the fingers, teasing the seam between the two. Swallowing the fingers deeper, he flicks his tongue at the webbing. Tightening his grip, he hollows his cheeks and bobs his head, moaning around the wet fingers.  

An intake of breath from above is Arthur's cue to release, but before Eames's fingers completely leave his mouth, they press against the flesh of his tongue.

His only reaction is to whimper, grip slackening on Eames's wrist just enough for the same hand to grab his chin and drag him up to Eames's height.

"Arthur, pet," a thumb skates across Arthur's bottom lip, "I understand what you're trying to do and as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I don't believe you'll be particularly pleased with yourself when I come in my trousers before I get the chance to do it in you."

Looking through half-lidded eyes, Arthur reaches a hand to rub at the large bulge in Eames's pants, smirking at the sharp intake of breath his ministration elicits.

Eames jerks at Arthur's chin to get his attention. Arthurs brown eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated in response to everything, thin lips glossed over with a sheen of spit, and cheekbones flushed red.

"All because you can't wait two bloody minutes," he growls, connecting their mouths with a bruising kiss.

Arthur full-body trembles and throws his arms around Eames's neck, arching his back into the kiss. Eames cups one hand on the small of Arthur's back for support and the other at the small of his neck.

What they lack in familiarity, they make up for with finesse.

Arthur nibbles at Eames's plush lips. He nips at the bottom lip and sucks the flesh into his mouth, eliciting a groan from the alpha. He cards his nails up Eames's scalp and back down to cup his strong jaw. Arthur is going to map this devastatingly sharp jaw with nothing but his mouth later. For now he settles for teasing his way across Eames's nerves. Fleeting in touch, but ingrained in memory; leaving him wanting more.

While Arthur is coquettish and limber, Eames is unyielding and purposeful. His hands wander across Arthur's lithe body, dragging his mark through Arthur's resolve. Wrecking it to the point of no return. Eames cradles Arthur's head with delicacy but unrelentingly licks his way through his mouth, ravaging until Arthur's begging for more.

Eames eventually pulls a loose-limbed, trembling Arthur up into his lap, mid-kiss. Arthur straddles the girth of Eames's thighs. Eames squeezes at Arthur's ass before settling his hands on Arthur's hips to apply pressure and grinds up. They steadily thrust against each other until they build a rhythm: with each upwards thrust, Eames tightens his grips ever so slightly because he's learned Arthur moans audibly louder with some more pressure; with each downwards grind, Arthur is sure to settle his bulge right on top of Eames's and cant his hips.

"No here," Arthur slurs, grabbing Eames's hands when he tries to start another rhythm. He clambers off Eames's lap and pull on a hand. "Bed."

They stumble blindly towards Arthur's bedroom, trying their best to strip clothes but remain touching in some way.

Finally they end up on Arthur's bed, all naked but Eames's tented briefs. They quickly spiral into moaning wetly into each other's mouth, licking and sucking where they can; hands groping everywhere.

"Please," he moans, trying to suck on Eames's fingers again, "Give me something." Arthur has reached the precipice of his heat where everything burns in desperation and he needs release. "Please."

Eames tuts and turns them to face the headboard. Arthur instinctively rises to his hands and knees. Eames tucks two pillows under Arthur's pelvis, careful to point his dribbling cock down.

"I've got you, pet." He cards his fingers through Arthur's wild hair, "Let me take care of you." He runs a soothing hand up and down the slope of Arthur's back.

The sensation isn't enough to curb Arthur wet cries into the mattress, hands fisting at the sheets. A litany of pleads falling from his mouth; cock twitching and drooling, ass quivering and leaking.

"Look how sopping wet you are, pet." Eames glides a gentle finger through the slick collecting at the dip of Arthur's hole, earning him a strangled moan. He settles his cheek on the slope of Arthur's lower back and breathes in deeply. "Your scent is sublime."

He repositions himself directly in front of Arthur's hole, gripping his ass. Spreading Arthur's milky cheeks, he watches the uncontrollable clenches of Arthur's hole, heat pulsing through his body. Eames blows gently on Arthur's hole and Arthur mewls, a new current of slick coating his balls and inner thighs.

"Fuck, just give it to me," Arthur cries, hips twitching.

Unable to resist such a sight, Eames leans forward and places the flat of his tongue directly over Arthur's hole. He lightly rims it before pushing his tongue through.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Arthur's entire body contracts and comes. Eames feels Arthur's hole fluttering around his tongue, releasing a new surge of slick, painting his tongue with an undeniable sweetness. He groans and laps up what he can, moving downwards in search of more of Arthur. Sucking a ball into his mouth and gently tugging on Arthur's twitching cock, Eames eases one finger and then another and slowly fingers in and out of Arthur's hole.

"Give me more," Arthur begs, pushing back onto Eames's fingers, swallowing them down to the third knuckle before pulling off. He begins to fuck himself on Eames's fingers and moaning when they scissor and stretch him. "I can take more."

"Can you?" Eames sits back on his haunches and watches Arthur squirm with every scissoring motion. He stills Arthur's movement to add a third finger that Arthur's hole accommodates so nicely. With a hand placed firmly on Arthur's lower back, Eames searches for the nub to make Arthur scream.

A tentative pet on the nub sends shivers down Arthur's back, precum starting to blossom. With a smirk, Eames attacks Arthur's prostate with no reservation. A heavy, repetitive petting motion soon has Arthur reduced to mewling.

"Please, don't stop. Please please please." Arthur's body convulses with each stroke, hands clenching abortively at the sheets. "Right there right there."

"You're doing so well, pet," Eames whispers, "So very well." He's rapt in attention watching Arthur's hole clench around his three fingers, a red ring around his tan. Slowly spreading his fingers, he hooks his fingers down onto Arthur's prostate and pulls. Arthur convulses violently against Eames's fingers, arms giving out.

Running a skittish hand across his throbbing bulge, Eames releases a shuddering breath but controls himself. He takes a moment instead to review the beauty in front of him: Arthur, boneless and pliable, is ass up in the air, propped up by squashed pillows. His mouth is slack-jawed and drooling. His wavy hair has long fallen out of its pomade and hangs loosely. Cum pools in a small puddle underneath his twitching cock.

He looks so debaucherous it makes Eames crazy. Eames pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth for taste. Divine.

He moves to lay his heavy, solid body across the length of Arthur's back. He skates his nose across the small of Arthur's neck, catching a faint whiff of whatever soap he uses.

"Are you ready?" he asks slipping a hand around to cup Arthur's clavicle, heat radiating under his hand.

"Yes," Arthur whines, a high pitched, desperate cry. He squirms up against where Eames's erection strains against its confines, grinding mindlessly.

"Up you come then." Eames pulls them up into a kneeled position, Arthur's searing back to his front.

Suddenly, with surprising strength, Arthur whips around and shoves Eames against the headboard. "Down you go," he smirks, pulling at Eames's briefs.

Eames hisses when his cock springs up out, flushed and shining at the head. The sight of Arthur crouching down between his legs, ass in the air once more, delivers all the blood in his body downwards.

Arthur runs his tongue across his lips in preparation and wraps a hand around the pulsing flesh. He zeroes in on Eames's cock and brings it to his mouth, sliding down to the base.

"Holy fuck," Eames groans, hands fly to Arthur's hair. Arthur sucks hard and fast, hollowing his cheeks, reminding Eames of the little preview he got earlier. The image is enough to send a shivering spike of arousal through his body. A hand comes around to fondle at his heavy balls, playing with the soft weight of them.

"Yes, just like that." His hand tugs ever so slightly and elicits a delicious moan from Arthur, who grabs at Eames's thigh, nails biting into his flesh. "Like that, do you?" he asks, yanking Arthur's head back all the way just until the head of his cock rests precariously against the fat of Arthur's bottom lip. Pale neck extended to Arthur's flushed chest and back arched. It's obscene.

"So much," Arthur moans, wet lips sealing around Eames's cock and sucking. One hand doubles its effort and massages Eames's balls, gently rolling them in his palm; the other wraps around Eames's cock and pumps.

Arthur is applying the perfect combination of suction and touching that that familiar haze soon falls over Eames. Knowing it foreshadows glorious release and subsequent weightless ecstasy, he feels his hips unconsciously tick upwards into Arthur's mouth, speeding up with each thrust.

"Fuck, that's it," Eames whines, hands tightening in Arthur's hair, "I'm gonna come, pet."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, so does his cock from Arthur's mouth.

"What the fuck?" he shouts, hands itching to return to Arthur's soft hair. There's a flash of red in his sight and somewhere he knows it's ridiculous to even be angry, but God damnit he was so close coming.

"I want you to come in me," Arthur pouts unfazed, wiping at his sinful mouth. He leans his hands on Eames's thighs, purposefully sliding his erect cock alongside Eames's own pulsating, raging cock.

The silly anger dissipates and Eames loses focus with each torturous slide. "You're going to be the end of me," he groans, pulling Arthur into his lap and into a kiss.

They moan on contact, taking the moment to rut against each other.

"So you weren't just satisfied with me coming in your mouth," he murmurs against Arthur's reddened lips, "You want me to come in you? My cum all over your insides?"

"Yes, inside," Arthur licks into Eames's mouth, "All over."

"You greedy, selfish, little minx," Eames runs a hand down Arthur's back and smacks at his ass, drawing out a surprised moan, "Move." He slips out from under Arthur and scoots to the edge of the bed.

"What? Don't leave," Arthur cries confusedly. "You can come in my mouth."

Eames grabs Arthur and has him straddle his lap, mimicking their previous position. "A little bit too late for that, pet," he grins, lightly smacking Arthur's ass, "But don't worry, I'm giving you what you want -- arms around my neck," Arthur obeys, "Hold on tight."

Arthur yelps when Eames hooks his arms under Arthur's knees and stands in one swift motion.

Eames stops, the tip of his bare cock pulsing and begging to thrust into Arthur's welcoming heat.  "Arthur, are you on the pill?" he demands, struggling to resist.

"Yes yes yes yes," Arthur moans, clawing at Eames's arms. "Please fuck me. Just fuck me, please!"

"Arthur," Eames is immovable, "Are you on the pill?"

"Yes!" Arthur cries, "I'm on the fucking heat pill! Now fuck me."

"You're not lying to me?" There's a slight pressure that beckons swift penetration.

Arthur writhes in Eames's arms. "If you don't fuck properly me right now, so help me God, I will run out onto the streets and throw myself at the next alpha who will."

The threat is enough for Eames to thrust his hips into Arthur's welcoming heat. Arthur loudly wails on penetration, Eames’s wide girth piercing through him.

"Don't you even dare," Eames growls, bucking with each word, "I'd like to see you try and I'll sure as hell fight each and every one of them off. You're mine."

Arthur tightens his arms around Eames's neck, unable to do much else as Eames continues to piston into Arthur. A pressure builds with every glance of Eames's cock over Arthur's prostate, goaded on by a reminding slap of heavy balls.

"Say it."

A final slap is all Arthur gets before he's suspended in air, connected to Eames only by his interlocked fingers behind Eames's neck, his legs hooked over Eames's elbows, and the penetrating head of Eames's cock.

"What?" Arthur nearly weeps. He can focus on nothing but the clawing emptiness in him. Arthur flexes his entrance in yearning, wiggling in attempt to slide down Eames's cock.

"Say it, pet." The endearment is as pained as Arthur feels, but Eames looks resolutely into Arthur's eyes. "Say you're mine."

There's a strange current that runs between them, and Arthur can take no more before summoning the strength to pull himself close to Eames.

"Please, Eames," Arthur babbles, mouthing at Eames's devastating jaw. He tongues over stubble and trails upwards until he reaches a lobe and sucks. "I'm yours."

The effect is instantaneous.

Eames tightens his elbows and brings Arthur back down with a punishing force, but is received as anything but a punishment. He pounds furiously into Arthur, face incarnadine with exertion and pleasure.

Arthur arches his back with a gasping moan. His own cock is steadily drooling precum and tapping a staccato beat onto his stomach. He reaches to fist his cock and kisses Eames.

By the end of the kiss, Eames has moved them back to the bed. Laying Arthur on his back, he unhooks his arms from under Arthur's legs and grips Arthur's waist.

Arthur has an arm thrown over his face. "Please, please," he wails, "I'm close."

With each mad thrust, the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach fills his balls. There's nothing Arthur can do but blindly paw at Eames's hands. "Harder," he moans, "Faster."

Eames complies, tightening his grip on Arthur's hips, and shortens his thrusts to piston into Arthur's body. He's rewarded by Arthur's gutted sob and trembles.

"Fuck, Eames, fuck." Nothing follows but the sound of skin slapping skin

Arthur comes so hard he raises off the bed, stomach muscles pulled taut. His mouth is slack but a wrecked cry manages to escape. He can just barely keep his eyes open to watch Eames continue to pump fervently at his leaking cock, teasing what he can out of Arthur’s body. Distantly, he feels a gentle hand run through the cum decorating his now relaxed stomach.

There’s a moment of clarity that returns after Arthur descends from his orgasmic high, and he’s acutely aware of the pulsing, growing heat still in him, stretching him. “Come on,” he whispers, rolling his hips, “Come on.” Arthur skates a hand down Eames's chest and rakes through the thick patch of hair leading to the glorious cock currently leaving him breathless. “Come on.” He reaches for Eames’s neck and pulls him down, seeking to connect their mouths. "Come on."

With a growl, Eames drags Arthur closer until he hunches over Arthur's cooling body. The familiar haze returns and he renews his pounding with a frenzy.

Arthur moans under him and bares his neck in offering, already mottled with an array of bites. The sight is so visceral he feels his balls tightening. He ducks his face in Arthur's neck and sucks another angry bruise.

"Bloody incredible." The smell of Arthur so close and so enveloped in his own scent sends Eames bucking his hips as deep as he can into Arthur before coming, cock pulsing and cum surging into Arthur, at last.

He almost cries with how tremendous his release feels. How the only thing keeping him from floating is his cock in Arthur. How Arthur's hole milks his cock dry. How rewarding it feels to collapse on top of Arthur's welcoming body.

Arthur shudders under Eames's weight, and the heat of all the cum precedes the expanding knot to keep it all in.

There's no other sensation that can replace the fullness that knotting gives.

After his heart stops palpitating and his breathing returns to a more sedated pace, Eames shifts their connected bodies fully onto the bed. He slowly maneuvers them onto their sides and gently turns Arthur to face the other direction, who fruitlessly protests the movement, whining as the knot tugs at his hole.

"It'll work out better in the end, pet," Eames chuckles, fishing the crumpled duvet over them. "How do you feel?"

Arthur does nothing but mumble in response, pulling Eames's arm over his side and into his possession. He hears Eames chuckle again and place an affectionate kiss on the back of his neck before his breathing evens out and he falls asleep.

\---

The next morning Eames is woken up brusquely and thrown out of Arthur's apartment.

"I don't know who you are and clearly you're not someone who deserves to have the police called on them, but you need to leave," Arthur has the duvet wrapped around his body, hair wild and sticking out, "Right now."

Eames quickly wheels through feeling disoriented (not a morning person) to slightly irked (especially when rudely awoken) to a little smug (he takes inventory of Arthur's state) to somewhat chilly (no duvet) to completely and utterly confused (what happened?).

"Excuse me, pet?" he quirks, voice low and scratchy. His accent is even more pronounced.

"Don't call me that, do I look like a domesticated animal?" Arthur growls, throwing Eames's clothes on the bed. "Leave."

The clothes are folded.

"No, you don't, but putting that aside for now -- I don't quite follow what's quite happening here." Eames nevertheless gets off the bed and begins dressing himself, briefs first.

Arthur is distracted momentarily by Eames's flaccid cock and the night before. He blushes when he's caught staring. "Look, you helped me out last night when I was caught off guard and you haven't done any harm, so I appreciate everything you've done, but you need to leave."

"Caught off guard?" Eames sputters, sliding into his cargo pants, "You were a little more than caught off guard, dear."

"Don't call me that either," Arthur bites out, "I was caught off guard, and we're going to leave it at that, because you are leaving."

Eames pauses in the middle of sliding on his absolutely horrendous looking paisley sweatshirt and raises an eyebrow. "Were you not satisfied last night?"

"No, I was, very," Arthur flushes at his admittance and pulls the duvet tighter around him, "But again, not the point. The point is --"

"I need to leave. Got it, sweetheart."

Eames exits the bedroom.

"Not your sweetheart." Arthur trails behind.

Eames picks up his jacket and puts it on.

"Again, I really appreciate you helping me out." Arthur watches as Eames slips into his beat-up trainers. Without socks.

Eames is still confused but slowly wheeling into hurt. He turns around to give Arthur a look.

There's a beat and that strange current runs through them again but Arthur brushes it off.

"Thank you," he says, running a hand self-consciously through his hair.

Eames looks into Arthur's eyes and reaches across the space between them to brush a wavy strand out of the way. "Where did you even come from?" he whispers.

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, but Eames turns his back and opens the door, cold morning air rushing in. "Bye, darling," he throws over his shoulder and leaves.

What an atrocious outfit, Arthur thinks. But it's okay. They'll never have to see each other again.

Arthur will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I hope this chapter was worth it! (It was also my first time writing a sex scene, so pleaseplease let me know if it was actually terrible/too graphic/overkill/okay/etc., and I'll keep it in mind when I write more.)
> 
> And just fyi, my take on the ABO dynamic for this fic was hopefully fleshed out in this chapter, but basically it's just another form of classification and discrimination people can face (fuck you, Jules), versus any sort of uber animalistic personhood some ABO fics are like. 
> 
> (The flashback-story's not done yet, so don't you worry. )


	4. Chapter 4

("Dad, tell me about Eames.")

\---

An unsettling feeling enters after Eames leaves and settles into the pit of Arthur's stomach. It's only seven fifteen in the morning but there's tension in his body that makes him feel like he's cycled through an entire day. He stands in the doorway for just a bit longer.

Puling the duvet closer around his body, both to shield from the morning chill and to offer some semblance of comfort, Arthur instinctively takes a deep breath.

It's a strange smell that hits his nostrils. The aftermath of a heat-frenzied night in bed usually smells overwhelmingly like the alpha, but this time there's nothing overbearing. Just a strange, comfortable smell.

He quashes the unsettling feeling into something manageable.

After that it's easy to go through all the post-heat motions: he moves back into his room to make quick work of stripping the bed of all evidence, ignoring the cloud of strange but comfortable scent he inevitably sends into the air; opens all the windows in his apartment and even turns on the fans; takes a quick, steaming shower, methodically scrubbing down every part of his body while disregarding the angry bites he can't scrub away and how everything aches in the best possible reminder of the night before; drinks a shit ton of water to rehydrate. Eating is surprisingly always last on his list and he only ever remembers to when his stomach groans.

Though he's more surprised to see two boxes of Le Dragon leftovers sitting on his kitchen counter (and to be reminded of Eames in such an innocuous way). Less so when he demolishes both in record time before the clock turns eight.

\---

"Now run that all by me again."

Arthur sighs into his coffee and flips through the morning newspaper. "Dom -- look, my heat came early because of stress and I'm lucky that the random stranger who helped me out wasn't a complete psychopath. Can we leave it at that?"  

"You bet your lucky fucking stars he wasn't a psychopath," Dom rails, "And you can also bet that when I get back next week I'm going to rip that Jules shithead a new fucking asshole. I can't believe --" Arthur hears Mal tut in the background and hands grapple for the phone. "-- And what the fuck kinda name is Eames?" Dom manages to get in before Mal wrestles the phone from him. Germany's won some world cup.

"Arthur, cher, you understand we're just worried about you," Mal's soothing voice replaces Dom's currently grating one, "We had noticed you hadn't been coming over as often since Phillipa's been born, and last night when you sent us that text, Dom all but ran over to your apartment."

"Yes, I know." There's been some sort of noble familial dispute in the UK. "He's made sure to mention that many times."

"We're just glad you're okay, cher."

"Well, I'm glad I'm okay, too."  Arthur finishes off the remains of his coffee and moves to get more. "And that's all that matters. I had an early heat and was caught unprepared, but I got help and now it's over and I can move on like always. That's it."

"Yes, well, sometimes that's what worries me," Mal exhales into the phone receiver and Arthur can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright, okay, enough of that. You're a grown man. You had an early heat and had a nice person to take care of you and you were safe and that's what matters. So why don't you come over when you finish breakfast and --"

"Shit."

Safe.

"Cher, is everything --"

"I'll call you back," he says, throwing his phone down and bolting to his room.

He searches every surface of his room. Drops to his hands and knees to check under the bed, nightstand, dresser, and desk. Digs through the waste basket in his room twice. Upends the one in his bathroom entirely to sort through its contents. He repeats it all five times.

Arthur sits among the scattered contents of his bathroom trash and stares down his toilet, contemplating the odds the condom had been flushed.

He repeats his search once more for a condom wrapper.

Nothing. No condom wrapper.

No condom.

The unsettling feeling returns with a vengeance. It claws out of Arthur's stomach and heads straight to his throat. All attempts to go through a breathing exercise fails and he's left gasping for air, trembling on his hands and knees. There's a wash of cold sweat that runs down his body and leaves him light-headed. He eventually settles enough to pull himself into a sitting position, head between his knees. Deep breathes in and out.

In and out.

He waits for his breathing to even out and a few minutes after before pushing himself up and going back into the kitchen.

His coffee is cold by the time he returns so he pours it down the drain, making a mental note to stay away from caffeine for a while. He heats up a kettle of water and fishes out some free trade nonsense chamomile tea Molly gave him. He waits until he has a new mug full of tea steeped before grabbing his phone.

He has four missed calls from Mal and Dom.

'Sorry, I forgot I had clothes in the dryer so I had to go get them before they wrinkled. I'll call you two later.' He sends that text hoping it's enough to assuage them long enough that they'll give him some space.

The clawing sensation scratches at the back of his throat and he quickly takes a sip of tea to drown it.

'Don't bother calling cher just come over after you done hanging up your precious clothes.' Mal sends back. 'Phillipa misses her favorite godfather :-*.'

He smiles briefly, finishes his tea, and runs through a breathing exercise before finding his laptop and searching all the omega physicians within a twenty-five mile radius of his apartment.

\---

He successfully sets up an appointment with a one Dr. Sophia Bayard, MD, in three days’ time.

She's twenty-four point four miles and six metro transfers away from his apartment, but every online review promises confidentiality, excellence, and forty years of quality experience. Not to mention the multiple occurrences of "kind," "caring," and their variations in every review helps ameliorate the growing pit in Arthur's stomach.

(He also ran a search for abortion clinics within fifty miles, but can't bring himself to focus and closes the tab.)

Later, once he's downed two and a half more mugs of tea, run through a few more breathing exercises, and wrapped protectively in his favorite wool three-piece suit, he makes his way over to the Cobb residence just in time for lunch.

Everything will be okay.

\---

Dr. Bayard is a septuagenarian beta with a slight hunch and long silver hair, braided and thrown over her shoulder. Wrinkles outline her umber face but so do laugh lines.

"Good morning," she greets, shuffling into the office. "Let us see. Arthur Levine. Twenty-one years old. Omega from two beta parents. Vitals healthy," she flips through her clipboard holding his personal and medical information, marking and circling things, "What can I help you with today, Arthur?"

It's clearly a rhetorical question.

Arthur shifts nervously and the exam table paper under him crinkles. "I just wanted to ask you some questions and get your medical opinion." He can't help but to stare down at his shoes. They're a pair of cognac Allen Edmonds his mother gifted him before he left America.

They both know why he's here.

In and out.

"You said in your papers that you had an early heat caused by stress, but you are using heat pills and have been since the age of," she flips through the clipboard, "Since the age of ten." She frowns, "Does this happen frequently?"

Arthur nervously shifts again. He's been called an early bloomer even by omega standards, but he's always felt more awkward with that label than proud.

"My heats have always been very irregular, but less so since I've entered adulthood. This is the first early heat I've had in a while," he mumbles.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur." She sets her clipboard down. "Now seeing as how you are familiar with early heats, this all begs the question, what can I help you with?" she raises a silver eyebrow.

"Well, as it says in my papers, I-I recently had unprotected sex during my early heat," he stumbles, fisting at the soft leather of the exam table. "And I would like your medical opinion as to what to do next."

Dr. Bayard looks at him over her half-moon glasses and sits on a rolling stool. "Neither of those were questions." She rolls over to Arthur, taking his hand in her own.

He swallows and grips her wrinkled hand tightly. "What do I do?" It's barely a whisper, but it's a question.

"Well, Arthur," she pauses and considers what to say next, "I refuse to patronize my patients, and while I do not quite know everything about sexual education in the states, either way, I assume you understand your own body and you have done your research and you know that as a male omega it takes about a month for anything conclusive to show up -- positive or negative. There is really not much you can do right now," she rolls back over to her clipboard, "And if the date you have given is accurate, and if your body was receptive to any sperm, it will then take the next four weeks or so to, for a lack of a better word, rearrange itself for proper fertilization."

Arthur runs his hands down his slacks, brushing off invisible lint. "So it's just a waiting game for the next month?"

"It is."

"There's nothing I can do, but wait."

"And then come back in early October. We will run a test and go over the results. From there we can go over your options and you can make whatever arrangements that need to be made."

He exhales slowly. "Okay."

"Now, one thing I do need to make sure: you have your primary contacts, but is there a father in the picture?" Dr. Bayard has the papers flipped to the sheet and Arthur can see the blank he left empty.

The unsettling feeling peaks out, but he pushes it back.

"No," he exhales again, hands flat on his thighs, "No father."

She fixes him another look over her glasses. "Alright then, Arthur, I have everything I need. If you do not have any more questions for me, you can head over to the receptionist and he can help you arrange your next visit in a month."

He moves off the exam table with one last crinkle and slips his jacket back on, fastening the top button. Picking up his bag, he opens the door for them both. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Bayard."

"You made the appointment, Arthur, it is technically your time we are using," she titters, standing up, clipboard in hand, shuffling her way out of the office.

"Regardless of it all, thank you." For not judging goes unsaid.

She lays a gentle hand on Arthur's bicep. "Just remember that whatever you find out in a month, it is your choice to make and I am here to help."

They walk out to receptionist and she helps him make his appointment for next month.

The waiting game begins.

\---

To be honest, the month speeds by.

Waiting is less of waiting when there's work. But even work falls back into its enjoyable plateau. Dom comes back from his paternity leave. The project progresses smoothly, nearing the end of the final design stage and almost ready to enter the construction phase. (Jules was kicked off the primary team for some undisclosed reason and now avoids Arthur like the plague, other third years following in suit.)

He has much success with his father's quiche and makes some for dinner one night at the Cobb's. It's met with great review to his delight. Moreover, Mal teaches him her risotto recipe and he aces it.

When his appointment rolls around, Arthur has returned to the routine of things.

\---

It's October now and chilly, but Paris is similar to Manhattan so it's nothing Arthur isn't used to.

In fact, autumn is his favorite season because, though not limited to, that he gets to wear his thicker herringbone suits.

The thicker fabric also helps to hide what isn't showing.

(He pees into a cup and his blood is drawn. Both tests turn up positive.

It's just barely past the four week mark, but his body has indeed begun to rearrange itself and the ultrasound picks up some small mass.

"That's a baby."

"Not technically," Dr. Bayard says, gliding the probe across his lower abdomen, "but technically, yes.")

He tells no one.

Not Dom or Mal.

Not Molly.

Not his parents.

It remains between him, Dr. Bayard, and whatever he chooses.

He has three months.

In and out.

\---

("We ran into each other in an art museum. Like one of those silly movie clichés.")

\---

Arthur recognizes Eames right away, what with his atrocious outfit and stupid jaw. He's wearing another godforsaken patterned top with the first two buttons undone so the collar lays open at his thick neck. Over it is a poorly fitting jacket of some undistinguishable polyblend and a too long, linting scarf that grazes the ground as his paces around. He doesn't seem to be wearing socks again.

He himself had just left Dr. Bayard's office (granted, "just left" is relative to the two hour metro ride it usually takes to return home), but decided on the third transfer he wanted to be anywhere but home. He changes lines to ride to the first arrondissement to head straight to the l'Orangerie.

His first instinct upon seeing Eames is to run away immediately. Because of all the fucking coincidences to happen.

However, there's enough people in the space for Arthur to weave through and settle into a space at the opposite side of the oval room, far away from Eames.

(Dom likes to tease him because he so ardently defends modern art, and while he does feels like somewhat of a turncoat (and a little voice hisses "mainstream"), he loves Monet. Granted, in his defense, he doesn't really care for any other Impressionist artist; besides Monet, all his love is for modern art.

So he could go to the Centre Pompidou for modern or the Louvre for general inspiration, but whenever he needs to be out of his head but also to feel better, he goes to the l'Orangerie for Monet's Water Lilies.)

He stares at the section in front of him. This time he's looking at nothing but water. There's a cluster of liles in his peripheral, but now it's just water.

It's easy to fall into a trance and out of his head. The diffused light from overhead gently flows across the painting and makes the water glisten. Every stroke runs into the next and nothing is precise, but everything falls into balance. The colors are muddled together but he can never bring himself to wrong Monet's palette.

It's strange that he should look only at water with this visit.

Omegas have always felt a keen association to water. Be it the natural healing elements or the hidden strengths, water represents the fluidity an omega embodies, both in mind and body.

In mind and body where Arthur currently despairs.

"Strange seeing you here, darling," a voice rumbles in his ear, "I almost didn't recognize you."

Arthur snaps out of his trance and takes one glance in the direction of the voice and locks eyes with Eames.

He runs away immediately.

\---

("He's a very talented actor.")

\---

Dom never cared for Halloween. He's always thought it was silly. The idea of dressing up in some scratchy costume and wasting all of one's energy going to random houses to ask for candy when one could just as easily buy it all was silly to Dom.

Thankfully France didn't care for the day either.

Of course, Mal loves the idea of it.

"Chérie, you are so adorable!" Mal cries, lifting Phillipa into the air. They're both wearing matching ladybug costumes.

Phillipa gurgles happily and grabs at the antennae protruding from Mal's head.

"Mal, is this really necessary?" Dom asks out of principle. He still thinks the whole day is silly, but seeing Mal and Phillipa so happy helps kill any fight in him.

"Yes, it is," she says. "Besides you promised me this as long as we went along for whatever nonsense you're dragging us to tonight."

Compromise, Dom's learned, is the key to a happy marriage.

"It is not nonsense -- it's Shakespeare."

"It's preposterous, is what it is," she scoffs, "You would think any self-respecting Parisian would produce Molière."

"They're not even French --" Dom is cut off by a sharp knock on the door. He looks down at his watch. "That's our cue."

They open to door to Arthur. He's just come off of some overtime for the project, finishing up the last details before they shipped everything over to Japan and construction begins. He's holding a thermos of warm cider and a stack of paper cups.

"What are we even doing, Dom?" Arthur asks into his scarf while the Cobbs bundle up. "Shakespeare dans le parc? Really?"

"It's going to be great. Honestly, if you and Mal are going to give me grief all night, I'm just going to elect to make this a father-daughter night," Dom says, taking Phillipa from Mal. "Wouldn't that be fun, Philly? Yes, it would!"

Mal rolls her eyes and puts the thermos and cups into Phillipa's diaper bag as they make their way to the park in question. "Let's not be late, Dom."

The sun has just barely begun to set so the street lamps lining the path into the park are quietly asleep. The trees have all changed their leaves into a crisp orange, catching the setting sun. People are ambling about, clouds of their breath obscuring their faces.

A bit farther into the park they see a pair of colorful bunting wrapped around a row of trees leading to the stage. There's a large banner above the marked off entrance that reads: 'Shakespeare dans le parc présente Le Songe d'une nuit d'été!'

(It's rather counterintuitive to produce it in the midst of autumn, but to each their own, Arthur thinks.)

As they follow the bunting deeper into the park alongside other audience members, they enter a large, open space and in the center sits an elevated, circular platform. A large ring around the stage is grass seating where people have laid out blankets; the ring after is comprised of seats. Bright stage lights hang from poles and trees, illuminating the entire space and casting out the oncoming night and cold.

They find an empty area and Mal pulls blankets from out of the diaper bag, spreading the largest out. After settling on the blanket, Dom uncaps the thermos and pours three cups while Phillipa squirms on her stomach. For all the grief he gave Dom, Arthur is content to slouch on his side and sip warm apple cider with a blanket thrown around himself.

Many families are in attendance. There are children running around in various costumes, coats thrown over them; some adults are even taking part in the festivities. Couples scattered here and there on their own blankets.

The lights flicker to signal the beginning of the show and the audience falls silent.

The show is good -- surprisingly good for "Shakespeare in the park."

There's minimal use of set pieces and props, but the actors utilize it all with practiced precision. All the colors and patterns would be jarring but each costume is a seamless presentation of the character and the shared relationships. The space itself is set up in such a way that actors can enter and exit from the trees, slipping through chairs and hopping over blankets. Everything paints an excellent scene.

By the end of the first act, Arthur is grudgingly prepared to admit to Dom that he's glad he's come.

The second act begins with Puck and a fairy announcing the entrance of Oberon and Titania.

And it's Eames.

This time Arthur almost didn't recognize him. He has a full beard, decorated with small blooms. His costume is a simple earth-toned robe open at the throat and atop his head sits a stylized wreath of sprigs. He's barefoot.

And he can speak French -- perfectly accented, guttural r and all.

Arthur chokes on his cider.

He gets the distinct urge to run away again.

He could do it, too. Just excuse himself and leave as quickly as he could. Avoid leaving his apartment ever again.

But it's just as easy to be swept into Oberon's pull.

The play continues and the audience watches as the four lovers dance around each other; falling in love, falling out of love, hating the other, hating themselves. All caught in the whimsy of the high fairy court.

The alpha King of Fairies is compassionate and benevolent as he is manipulative and jealous. His robes may be plain but he holds his crowned head higher than the rest, though they all know his omega queen rules him. Oberon doesn't waste a single movement and everything is delivered with explicit meaning. The audience hangs onto his every word, drawn into a magical world and transported to the Fairy Court.

(Arthur hangs onto his every word.)

He's enthralling.

(Eames is enthralling.)

When Puck bids his final goodbye the space fills with roaring applause that echoes through the park.

All the actors return from off-stage and stand along the circumference of the platform to take their bows, slowly traveling around to bow at each audience section.

Eames is grinning into the audience, large hands giving applause to his fellow actors and technical crew. Hair matted under the wreath and sweat gleaning under the lights. His beard has lost most of its flowers.

It's almost comical then how his eyes widen when he makes it to Arthur's section and they lock eyes. Arthur thinks he can see Eames's nostrils flare.

(He's no longer Oberon but Eames, and Arthur's urge to run is back.

But Arthur is enthralled, nevertheless.)

Eames nearly slips off the edge of the stage but is caught by Theseus. He chuckles and says something most likely in thanks, glancing at Arthur.

"That was fantastic," Dom exclaims, folding up the blankets. "What did I say, huh?"

"I enjoyed myself, I'll admit. The actors were quite good." Mal hoists a dozing Phillipa onto her hip. "But I still stand by Molière."

"Of course you do," Dom drops a kiss on her check and motions them through the exiting crowd, "What about you, Arthur? Not too shabby?"

"Not too shabby." He reties his scarf tighter around his neck.

The street lamps are lit now, though they give none of the heat the multitude of stage lights provided.

Mal hums something under her breath and they make their way back.

"Excuse me?" a voice calls from behind them.

They turn around to see Snout, or at least the beta woman who played him.

"Yes?" Dom shifts the diaper bag onto his other shoulder.

"Sorry, I don't mean to bother you all, but is one of you Arthur?" She's out of breath and her nose is bright red.

"That would be me," Arthur says warily, looking over the woman's shoulder.

"Thank god! -- sorry, I've been trying to chase you down and I was getting a little desperate." She takes a deep gulp of air and Arthur can see her nose start to run a little.

He buries his nose deeper into his scarf. "Okay?"

"Anyways, uh -- Oberon, uh, he wanted me to tell you that he-he doesn't believe in fate but he might start?"

The scarf suffocates him a little.

"So yeah." She props an arm against her side and mutters something under her breath. "He also wanted me to give you this." She fishes something out of her coat and hands it over.

It's a folded scrap of paper. The visible side has 'BERO' and some words printed on it. It must have been torn out of someone's script.

It smells faintly of Eames.

He takes it and pockets it. "Well, you can tell Oberon that he can do whatever he'd like."

"Right."

 (It comes out slightly strangled, as if she had been forced by someone to run in the cold to deliver a message to someone who so clearly doesn't care what that message was.)

"Thanks, I suppose," Arthur offers her a head nod. "Great show tonight, though. You were really great as Snout."

"Yes, it was fantastic!" Dom chimes in.

"Thanks!" That seems to soothe whatever annoyance had bubbled up. "Well, sorry again for bothering you all. Have a good night." She heads back in the direction she came.

Arthur pulls the scrap from out of his pocket and unfolds it. There's a number and a hastily scrawled 'call me?' in green ink.

"And what in the world was that?" Dom asks, staring at the woman's retreating back.

"You know Oberon?" Mal always asks the pertinent questions.

If only she'd ask the right one.

"Kinda," he says instead, stuffing the scrap back into his jacket. "He's Eames."

"Oberon's the psychopath?" Dom stops midstep and almost trips.

His scarf loosens a little bit.

\---

It takes him exactly three days to pull the scrap of paper from out of his Frank Gehry book, where he had been using it as a bookmark.

The green ink is strangely fitting for the illegible scrawl.

He inputs the number and hurriedly texts 'Lunch at Le Dragon in two days' and sends it before he has any second thought.

His heart races but his breathing is even.

'wouldnt miss it for the world'

\---

("He wooed me over Chinese food.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm actually writing this in an airport. Sorry I've been away -- life gets fun and real -- I also planned for this to be longer and better edited but I wanted to give you all something before I leave for an extended period of time.
> 
> I hope you stick with me!


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